Steven’s POV
Dylan told me to rest.
I remembered that.
I also remembered Aqua curled against me on the sofa, her hand loose in my shirt, her breathing soft while Fang watched from the back cushion like he could see every thought I was trying not to have.
I want this life. With her.
The words stayed with me long after Aqua woke, long after I helped her upstairs, long after I lay beside her in the dark with one arm around her and the other tucked beneath my head.
They did not leave by morning.
If anything, they settled deeper.
Not loud.
Not frantic.
Just there.
Like a small flame cupped between both hands.
I woke before Aqua did.
For a few minutes, I did not move. Morning light slipped through the curtains in pale lines, touching the edge of her hair where it spread over the pillow. The blue streaks looked softer in the early light, almost silver-blue, like the sea had left pieces of itself tangled there.
She looked peaceful.
Tired, but peaceful.
After everything last night, that felt like a miracle.
Then her eyes opened.
I froze like I had been caught doing something wrong.
Aqua blinked once, then looked up at me.
“You are staring.”
“No, I’m not.”
Her brow lifted.
I sighed. “I was staring a little.”
“A little?”
“A reasonable amount.”
Her mouth curved, faint but real. “That does not sound reasonable.”
“It was respectful staring.”
She shook her head, but the smile stayed.
For a moment, I almost forgot about training. About Dylan. About what I had been thinking all night.
Then Aqua shifted closer and rested her hand against my chest.
“Dylan told you to rest today,” she said.
I looked down at her. “Yeah.”
“You are thinking about going anyway.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
She smiled again, softer this time. “I know you.”
That hit harder than it should have.
“I can stay,” I said quickly. “I mean, I want to stay. If you need me here, I’m here.”
Her fingers pressed lightly against my shirt.
“I know.”
“I’m serious, Aqua.”
“So am I.”
The room quieted around us.
Aqua’s gaze moved over my face, gentle but searching. There was still tiredness beneath her eyes, still a shadow from last night, but she did not look broken.
She looked like someone who had fought a tide and was still standing on the shore.
“I think Dylan told you to rest because he thought I might need you here,” she said.
My chest tightened.
“You might.”
“Yes,” she said. “But not in a way that should make you stop moving forward.”
I frowned. “Aqua.”
“You were proud of yourself last night.”
The words made my face warm.
“I was not—”
“You were.” Her thumb brushed once over my chest. “You controlled your fire. You fought without losing yourself. You realized Dylan’s training was working.”
I looked away.
She had seen too much.
She always did.
“I still want to be here for you,” I said.
Her expression softened so much it almost hurt to look at.
“You are here for me, Steven.” She shifted closer, her forehead nearly touching my shoulder. “But I do not want to be the reason you stop reaching for your goals. I do not want you to hold yourself back because of me.”
My throat tightened.
She said that like she could ever be the thing holding me back.
But most days, I felt like it was the other way around.
Aqua had crossed worlds, faced her past, and stood against soldiers from Atlantis with her hands shaking and her chin lifted.
I was the one still learning how not to burn apart when fear touched the wrong place inside me.
That was why I needed training.
Not because I wanted to leave her.
Because I wanted to become someone who could stand beside her without making her carry the weight of my control too.
“That’s not what you are,” I said.
“Then do not treat me like it.”
The words were gentle.
Still, they landed.
I looked back at her.
Aqua held my gaze, steady and calm, even with all that exhaustion beneath it.
“Go train,” she whispered. “Come back to me after.”
For a second, I could not answer.
Then I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“I’ll come back.”
“I know.”
I pulled back just enough to see her face.
“You sure?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“Do not make me repeat myself before tea.”
“Yes, Princess.”
Her expression sharpened.
I grinned before I could stop myself.
Then she pushed my shoulder with one hand.
“Go.”
So I went.
Not because I wanted to leave her.
Because she had told me I could keep moving.
And somehow, that made me want to come back even more.
---
The training field was still damp from last night’s cold air. The grass clung to my shoes, and the wooden practice posts stood in neat rows near the far side of the field. Morning sunlight cut over the fence, turning the dew silver.
Dylan was already there.
Naturally.
He stood near the center of the field with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand resting on the hilt of a practice blade. His dark hair was tied back loosely, and his back was to me at first.
Then he turned before I said anything.
Like he had known exactly when I would step onto the grass.
“I knew you would come here,” he said.
I stopped at the edge of the field. “Then why did you tell me to rest?”
“Because you should have.”
“That feels unfairly reasonable.”
“It usually is.”
I stepped onto the field anyway.
Dylan’s eyes moved over me, measuring. “Did Aqua send you?”
“Encouraged,” I said. “Sent sounds aggressive.”
“Did she tell you to rest?”
“No.”
“Then she is either more forgiving than I am or more aware that you are impossible.”
“I’m not impossible.” I glanced toward the practice rack. “I’m determined.”
“There is a difference?”
“The difference is mostly branding.”
Dylan stared at me.
I stared back.
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Then he released the practice blade and walked toward the rack.
“No endurance drills,” he said. “Control work only.”
“That sounds like you’re going easy on me.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“It is adorable that you still think control work is easy.”
My confidence dropped immediately.
“Right.”
“Hands up.”
The first drill was hand-to-hand.
No fire.
No Arcanum.
Just movement.
Dylan came at me fast, and I barely blocked the first strike before his elbow slipped past my guard and stopped an inch from my ribs.
“Again,” he said.
We reset.
He moved.
I moved.
For once, my mind did not scatter everywhere.
I watched his shoulders.
His feet.
The angle of his wrist before he struck.
The turn of his weight before he changed direction.
Dylan had been drilling it into me for days, but today the pieces stayed where they were supposed to stay. I did not chase every movement. I did not panic when he got close.
I breathed.
I stepped.
I answered.
His knuckles brushed my shoulder instead of landing cleanly.
Dylan’s brow lifted.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“Again,” he said.
This time, he added Arcanum.
Green light snapped from his palm in a short burst, not full force, but fast enough to make me twist sideways. I felt the magic skim past my sleeve before it struck the grass behind me and scattered into sparks.
Fire rose in my palm by instinct.
Not wild.
Not hungry.
Just heat.
I shaped it into a thin curve and let it flare low near Dylan’s side, forcing him to shift his stance.
He noticed.
Naturally.
His next move took advantage of my satisfaction.
One second I was standing.
The next, my back hit the grass and Dylan’s practice blade hovered over my throat.
I stared up at him.
He stared down at me.
“You got proud,” he said.
“For half a second.”
“That was enough.”
“I hate how fair that is.”
“You should.”
He stepped back and let me up.
We continued.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Fire against Arcanum.
Hands against hands.
Footwork until my legs burned and sweat ran down the side of my face. Dylan pushed me hard, but not recklessly. Every time my fire rose too quickly, he made me stop and shape it smaller. Every time I relied on speed, he punished the opening. Every time anger tried to sharpen my movement, he slowed everything down until I had to choose what I was doing.
By the end, my shirt clung to my back, and my arms ached.
But the fire had listened.
Every time.
Dylan lowered his hand after the final exchange, green light fading from his fingers.
I stood there, breathing hard, one fist still wrapped in a thin band of flame.
It did not spread.
It did not snap.
It waited.
I opened my hand.
The flame disappeared.
For a second, I just stared at my palm.
Dylan did not say anything.
That was probably his version of being nice.
Then he turned toward the bench near the fence.
“Break.”
I followed him without arguing.
That probably worried him more than anything else.
A small crate sat beside the bench with water bottles and folded rags. Dylan tossed one bottle toward me. I caught it against my chest, twisted the cap off, and drank too fast.
Cold water hit my throat.
I nearly choked.
Dylan sat at the far end of the bench and used a damp rag to wipe sweat from the side of his neck.
“You did well today,” he said.
I lowered the bottle.
“Thanks.”
His eyes cut toward me.
I realized too late that I had answered like a normal person.
No joke.
No smug comment.
No defensive deflection.
Just thanks.
Dylan stared.
“What?” I asked.
He leaned back slightly, rag hanging from one hand.
“What is going on, Steven?”
I looked away. “Nothing.”
“Try again.”
“I’m not allowed to accept praise now?”
“You are.” His gaze stayed sharp. “You are not usually this quiet when you do.”
I took another drink of water just to have something to do.
Dylan waited.
That was the problem with Dylan.
He did not fill silence for me.
He let it sit there until I either had to speak or drown in it.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“I was focused,” I said.
“You were too focused.”
“That’s a complaint now?”
“It is an observation.”
“Sounds like a complaint.”
“You were trying so hard to focus that it looked like you were using training to avoid thinking about something else.”
My fingers tightened around the bottle.
Dylan’s brow lifted slightly.
“There it is.”
I exhaled.
“Was it that obvious?”
“To me? Yes.”
I gave him a tired look. “You could pretend I’m mysterious.”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, water bottle hanging between both hands.
The field stretched ahead of us, quiet and damp and too bright for the thoughts sitting inside my chest.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said.
Dylan’s expression did not change, but something in his posture sharpened.
“That is generally dangerous for you.”
I huffed once, but it faded quickly.
“About Aqua.”
His humor disappeared.
Not harshly.
Just gone.
He waited again.
I stared at the ground.
At the grass caught in the edges of my shoes.
At my scraped knuckles from yesterday.
At hands that had held fire, held Aqua, held onto things too tightly and not tightly enough.
“I think I want to marry her,” I said.
Dylan went still.
Not shocked like someone else might have been.
Not loud.
Just still.
Like I had set something fragile between us, and he was deciding how close to stand before touching it.
“That,” he said slowly, “is not a sentence to drop beside a training field.”
“I’m not dropping it.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“Where is this coming from?”
I swallowed.
“Me.”
“That is vague.”
“I know.”
“Try again.”
I rubbed both hands over my face, then let them fall.
“I’ve been thinking about it since last night.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed.
“Since Orion.”
I looked at him sharply.
“It’s not because of Orion.”
“I did not say it was.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask.”
“That’s the same thing with you.”
“No,” Dylan said. “It is not.”
I looked away.
He let the silence stretch just long enough to make me uncomfortable.
Then he said, “Do not tell me this is because you saw her arranged future standing in front of her and decided you wanted to stand taller.”
I winced.
“You too?”
Dylan’s brows drew together.
“You expected me not to notice?”
“I don’t know. I was busy trying not to get stabbed.”
“The man looked at her like a duty he had lost and a woman he had never truly known.”
That was too clear.
Too close.
I stared at him.
Dylan took another drink of water as if he had not just carved open the exact thing I had been trying not to look at.
“He was supposed to marry her,” I said quietly.
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“From one look?”
“From several.” He capped his bottle. “And from the way you reacted.”
I groaned under my breath. “Great.”
Dylan looked at me. “If this is about him—”
“It’s not.”
“Let me finish.”
I closed my mouth.
His voice stayed level, but there was something harder beneath it now.
“If this is because Orion came for her and you want proof that she chose you, do not ask her. If this is because Atlantis chose another man first and you want to one-up him, do not ask her. If this is because you are afraid someone can still take her from you, do not ask her.”
Each sentence landed heavier than the last.
Dylan’s eyes did not move from mine.
“That would not be love. That would be fear wearing better clothes.”
My chest tightened.
I hated how much the words hurt.
I hated more that I needed to hear them.
For a moment, I could only stare at the bottle in my hands.
The plastic crinkled slightly under my grip.
Fire did not rise.
Good.
That mattered.
“No,” I said.
Dylan stayed quiet.
I forced myself to look at him.
“No. That’s not why.”
“Then tell me why.”
The answer should have been simple.
I love her.
And I did.
But that felt too small for what Dylan was asking.
Too easy.
Too much like skipping over the dangerous parts because they made me uncomfortable.
So I took a breath and tried to say it properly.
“I know how it looks,” I said. “I know it sounds bad after last night. Like Orion showed up and now I suddenly want to marry her because I feel threatened.”
Dylan did not soften.
Not yet.
“I don’t want to claim her,” I said. “I don’t want to prove anything to him. I don’t want to make her mine so Atlantis can’t touch her.”
My voice caught slightly.
I looked toward the house beyond the trees, though I could not see it from here.
“I hate that she had a whole life planned before she ever got to choose. I hate that people talked about her future like it was already written. I don’t want to become another person doing that.”
Dylan’s expression changed by a fraction.
I kept going before I lost the nerve.
“I want Aqua in my life because I love her. Because when I think about waking up tomorrow, and the next day, and whatever comes after that, she’s there. Not because I need her to fix everything. Not because I think marriage makes things simple. I know it doesn’t.”
I let out a rough breath.
“I know we’re young. I know she’s… technically way older, but not like that. Cultivation-wise, mind, body, she’s eighteen. Like me. I know that sounds insane if I say it out loud.”
Dylan blinked once.
“It does have a unique quality.”
“Don’t.”
“I said unique.”
“That was judgment.”
“It was restraint.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then the heaviness came back.
“I know this is my first love,” I said more quietly. “I know people would probably say that makes it too fast. Maybe they’d think I’m being stupid.”
Dylan did not answer.
I looked down at my scraped knuckles.
“But I’m thinking about it because I don’t want to be stupid with her. I don’t want to mess up something that matters this much.”
The field went quiet.
A breeze moved over the grass.
I could still feel Aqua’s hand in my shirt from last night. Her cheek against my lap. The way she had said our sofa like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“I don’t just want her safe from what she ran from,” I said. “I want to build a life with her. One she gets to choose every day. One where she can say no and still be loved. One where saying yes doesn’t become a chain.”
My throat tightened.
“I don’t want to own her choice. I want to offer her mine.”
Dylan looked away.
Just for half a second.
It was quick enough that I might have missed it a few weeks ago.
I did not miss it now.
Something passed through his face before he covered it. Not disapproval. Not surprise anymore. Something quieter.
Almost warm.
Almost sad.
Like happiness had brushed against an old bruise.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
Dylan looked back at me.
“Do you want my opinion or do you want to interrogate my face?”
“Both?”
“No.”
I sat back against the bench.
His gaze held mine again, steadier now.
“I am not judging you for wanting to marry her,” he said.
That surprised me.
“You’re not?”
“No.”
“I expected more punishment.”
“For what?”
“For trying to propose to a girl who is older than recorded human civilization but still somehow my age.”
Dylan stared at me.
Then, against all odds, the corner of his mouth moved.
Barely.
“If I judged every complicated magical relationship connected to the Four Families, I would not have time to sleep.”
“That is weirdly comforting.”
“It was not meant to be.”
“Still is.”
His almost-smile vanished, but not coldly.
“I would judge you if you were doing this for the wrong reasons,” he said. “If you were trying to claim her. If you were trying to secure yourself. If you were trying to turn last night into proof that she belongs to you instead of Orion.”
My stomach twisted at the words.
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
Dylan’s voice was quieter when he continued.
“You are babbling too much to be possessive.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“If this were pride, you would sound more certain. If this were jealousy, you would sound angrier. You sound terrified you might hurt her by loving her incorrectly.”
My mouth opened.
No words came out.
Dylan lifted his bottle again.
“That is more promising.”
I stared at him. “That might be the strangest compliment anyone has ever given me.”
“You collect strange compliments.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
I wiped sweat from my forehead with the rag, mostly to give myself a second.
“So what do I do?”
Dylan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
“If you ask her, do not ask like you need her answer to keep yourself standing.”
My chest tightened.
“Okay.”
“Do not ask like you are rescuing her from Atlantis.”
“I’m not.”
“Do not ask like you are replacing Orion.”
“I don’t want to be him.”
“Good.”
Dylan’s gaze sharpened.
“And do not ask like marriage is a way to prove she will never leave.”
That one hit the deepest.
I swallowed.
He saw it.
Naturally.
“I have heard enough to know you have gone through more than most people your age,” Dylan said. “You are allowed to be afraid. But Aqua should not have to carry that fear as a vow.”
I looked down.
The field blurred slightly, though I refused to let anything fall.
“I know.”
“Then remember it.”
“I will.”
Dylan sat back.
“When you ask, make sure she can hear the choice in it.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Make it an invitation,” he said. “Not a plea.”
The words settled between us.
Quiet.
Simple.
Heavier than any blade he had ever put in my hand.
An invitation.
Not a rescue.
Not a claim.
Not a desperate attempt to keep her from disappearing.
An invitation.
Something offered with open hands.
Something she could refuse.
Something she could accept freely.
I breathed in slowly.
“That sounds like her.”
Dylan nodded once.
“It should.”
I looked out across the field.
For the first time since the thought had started forming, it did not feel like panic rising in my throat.
It still scared me.
But it scared me in a way that felt honest.
Like standing at the edge of the cliff before stepping toward the sea.
Not because something was chasing me.
Because I wanted to move.
“Do you think she’d say yes?” I asked.
Dylan was quiet for long enough that I regretted asking.
Then he said, “I think she loves you.”
I looked at him.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It is the only part I can answer.”
The words sank in.
The rest was hers.
That was the point.
I nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
Dylan stood, grabbing the empty bottles from the bench and tossing his rag over one shoulder.
“Also,” he said, “do not say ‘yeah’ during the proposal.”
I shot him a look. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“You panic.”
“I do not panic that badly.”
“You tried to answer a princess with ‘yeah’ twice yesterday.”
“That was under combat stress.”
“Marriage proposals are also stressful.”
I groaned. “Why are you already making me worse at this?”
“I am making you aware of your weaknesses.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It is useful.”
I stood too, legs aching from training, chest aching from everything else.
Dylan started toward the equipment rack.
After a few steps, he paused.
“And Steven?”
I looked up.
“Yeah?”
His gaze shifted toward me, steady and unreadable in the morning light.
“If you do this properly,” he said, “I think she will hear the difference.”
My throat tightened.
I nodded once.
“Thanks.”
He looked away before the word could become too sentimental.
“Do not make me regret helping you.”
I blinked.
“Helping me?”
Dylan picked up the practice blade and set it back on the rack.
“I assume you will need help eventually.”
I stared at him.
He did not look at me.
Something warm moved through my chest.
Not fire.
Not hunger.
Something much smaller.
Much safer.
Friendship, maybe.
Still new enough that naming it felt dangerous.
So I did not.
Instead, I said, “I’ll try not to make it painful.”
Dylan glanced back.
“With you, that is unlikely.”
I smiled despite myself.
The morning sun warmed the field.
My body ached.
My hands were scraped.
My thoughts were still tangled, but less wild than before.
An invitation.
Not a plea.
For the first time, the idea of asking Aqua did not feel like something I was running toward before it could disappear.
It felt like something I needed to prepare for properly.
And maybe, if I did it right, something she could choose.